


Observance

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts: stare, watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observance

They're in Georgia, in a motel with swampwater creeping its damp onto the tarry pavement at the back edge of the parking lot. It's hot, and the motel has no air conditioning. It's _hot_ , the air pressing down like a heavy-handed touch, pressing inside Dean with every thick breath. He takes a cool shower and is overheated again by the time he's towelled off; he leaves himself naked, thankful at least that all the place had were singles and Sam's across the hall tonight. Sprawled out on top of just the undersheet, all other blankets stripped off into a pile on the floor, he sleeps lightly, fitful under his skin.

Dean's room is at the back end of the building, where it's quiet. Too far from the road to hear traffic, and cornered against the looming swamp, it's _quiet_. Even if the brief, cool wash of air through the stagnant room hadn't woken him, the subtle sound of a wingbeat would've.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is at the foot of the bed, pale in the room's deep shadows. Dean already feels weighed down by the heat; the dark gleam of Cas's gaze as it tracks slowly over the long, bare stretch of his body thickens the air even more, thickens the itch under Dean's skin into a low, electric hum. He shifts with it, just a little. Spreads his legs, just a little.

There's movement in the shadows, and the dry slither of cloth on cloth. Dean swallows, twice, throat clicking dryly; when he opens his mouth to say--something, he doesn't know what, but the room's so damn quiet and his breath seems so damn loud--Cas goes sharply still. Dean closes his mouth again, and a second later Cas's suit jacket hits the floor. Dean's hands make slow fists in the sheet.

By the time Cas is as naked as he is--and it doesn't take long, Cas's usual efficiency tinged with something urgent, like he might've been sweltering wearing all his layers as much as Dean was just looking at them--Dean is hard and wanting. He waits for Cas to kneel up onto the bed, to crawl over him and sink down to kiss him, to fit their bodies together in the near-unbearable heat and start a slow, even hotter slide of his cock in the sweat-slick cut of Dean's hip.

Cas kneels up onto the bed, just close enough that Dean can feel the spill of his body heat on his leg, and stops there. Settles there deliberately, sitting back with his taut thighs spread, his dick jutting heavily between them. Looks at Dean, and lifts his own hand, and starts stroking himself.

Dean's lips part on a silent "oh", and his fists clench tighter in the sheet, and his hips give a short, hitched jerk. Cas does this, every once in a while: shows up and says nothing and gets himself off just looking at Dean. The first time, before Dean knew what Cas wanted, he'd sat up, leaned in to mouth along Cas's jaw, reached down to slip his fingers between Cas's. Before he'd crossed even half the space between them, Cas caught his wrist in a grip like stone; he'd held him there, at arm's length, eyes dark and hungry and fixed on Dean, and jacked himself slow and hard until he shuddered and came all over his own hand.

Cas is fucking gorgeous like this, sweat-sheened and sex-flushed and touching himself so shamelessly, so focused, _so_ focused on Dean. Every time he does this--every time he looks and looks but keeps his hands to himself, every time he makes himself come with his eyes wide open--Dean feels like a goddamn voyeur. Like he's the one getting a private show.

But Cas isn't giving a show; he's taking one. Dean's wondered if Cas even knows how fucking hot it is when he brings himself off in front of Dean like this, if he even cares that Dean gets off just as hard watching him as he does watching Dean. If he has any idea how it twists Dean up inside--good and tight, this wet-heavy knot of awe and shame and grateful need--to see, so plainly, just how much Cas _wants_ him.

Cas's breathing is just as harsh as Dean's now, his mouth slack, his lips damp. His attention roves steadily along Dean's body, as close to a touch as Dean's going to get from him right now, practically as tactile as any physical touch could be. Cas works himself with slow, firm pulls, his long fingers curved into a perfect tunnel, his thumb flexing to swipe across the head on every crest, catch the wetness there and smear it over himself on the next slide down. Dean wants those fingers in his mouth. He wants to curl his tongue around the pad of that thumb, wants the hard bone of Cas's bent knuckle against his teeth. His breath catches on the thought--fuck, he can almost taste him, Cas's skin and sweat and come; his mouth waters for it--and he's so hard he _aches_ , precome dripping warm and messy onto his belly. He sees Cas's gaze fix on the slick of it; watches Cas's tongue skim out over his bottom lip, watches the slow stroke of Cas's hand turn faster, rougher, and Dean can't take it anymore, has to let go of the sheet with one hand and start jerking himself off, the feel of his own hand enough to break free a rusty moan.

Cas is close. Planting his free hand behind him on the bed, he starts canting his hips, pushing into his own fist, his body a lean, taut arch of restraint that Dean wants to touch, wants to undo--fuck, _wants_. "Cas," he gasps, and Cas's eyes fall half-shut, the rhythm of his hips falling into graceless shoves. "Cas, do it, want to see--want to watch you--"

" _Dean_." It comes out low and torn from deep in Cas's throat, and Cas pushes himself forward to lean over Dean instead of arching away from him. Dean feels his gaze--heavy and dark and glittering and on him, only ever like this on _him_ \--and then Cas is shuddering above him, his come spattering thick and wet onto Dean's thighs, his hips, his hand and wrist and cock.

"Yeah, Cas, on me--" Dean feels it on his skin, slipping between his fingers, slicking against his shaft and down over his balls, Jesus, _Jesus_. With the sight of Cas still above him, still watching him, still working himself through his last, slow pulses, Dean spills, his own come joining Cas's all over his chest and stomach and hand.

He's still mindless from his release when Cas stretches out next to him, takes Dean's hand and raises it to his mouth, but the wet swipe of Cas's tongue across his knuckles, through the mess of their come, brings him back. Dean groans brokenly, a fresh, hot lick of arousal curling low in his belly. Finally letting go his white-knuckled grip on the sheet, he rakes his clean hand into Cas's hair and pulls him down for a filthy kiss, his own tongue fucking lazily into Cas's mouth to chase the taste of them both.

This is part of it, too. Cas refuses and denies, insists on distance and remove, but only until they've come; then, like he might need it almost as much as Dean does, he closes the space between them, presses Dean into the mattress with the full, warm length of his body, runs his hands all over Dean's skin, mouths the line of his collarbone and sucks at his fingertips, arches into Dean as he does the same.

Tonight, in the suffocating, sex-humid heat of the motel room, the closeness and weight of Cas's body on Dean's is almost too much. Dean doesn't try to pull away, though; doesn't take his hand from the back of Cas's head, doesn't lift his parted lips from where they brush and catch on the stubble of Cas's jaw. Doesn't stop touching, now that he can.


End file.
